


Trek Ficlets

by williamspockspeare



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Chahura, Drabbles, F/F, Ficlets, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vulcan Language, all the spirk stuff is really tender so far, and the chahura is fluffy and cute, spirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23532544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamspockspeare/pseuds/williamspockspeare
Summary: "Jim could feel Spock's hesitance, his uncertainty. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”An ongoing collection of ficlets from various Tumblr prompts.
Relationships: Christine Chapel/Nyota Uhura, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 14
Kudos: 94





	1. Hold my Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and thanks for reading! All of these prompts were requested on my Tumblr: fictionandtheatre.tumblr.com. Check it out, and maybe drop a ficlet idea if you have one!

If any experience could be classed as truly universal, having a miserable time in sickbay seemed to be a strong contender. And it was certainly made worse when your orders were confinement. 

It might have made Jim laugh, in any other circumstance, with any other officer. Mr. Chekov in particular displayed an amusing grouchiness upon any medical order, and Jim himself was known to be a rather unpleasant patient (at least judging by McCoy’s reports). 

But this was not any other officer. At least, not to Jim. 

“Lights 80 percent.”

As the lights rose, a sharp breath hissed out of the Vulcan lying on the biobed across the room. His body contracted, curled in on himself. _Protecting himself?_ Jim wondered. _Hurt?_

Jim hastened to his side. 

“Spock.” His hands found his back, his arm. “Spock, what is it?” 

Rolling onto his back with Jim’s help, Spock dragged an arm over his face. 

“ _Nuh’ ugelik_.” 

Jim frowned. It was rare to hear his first officer speak outside of perfect Standard. So rare, in fact, that it took him a moment to realize that Spock must be speaking Vuhlkansu, his native language. 

“Spock?” he tried again, tugging at his arm. 

“Captain, please _ne-tor ha’gelan_ first.” 

“What?”

The arm lowered. Spock’s eyes were narrow. 

“The _ha’gelan_ , Jim. Why do you not...” He stopped, with a slight huff of realization. “Am I reverting to Vuhlkansu?”

“It sounds like it.”

“I am attempting to ask you,” he said, clearly exerting great effort to ensure all his words were in the correct language, “to reduce lights to a not-bright setting. Not bright? No, that cannot be correct...”

“Dimmer?” Jim offered, gently.

“Dimmer!” he echoed, with a measure of vindication. “Lights forty percent dimmer.”

The room grew darker, as requested, seemingly to Spock’s relief. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t figure that one out sooner.” Jim moved to sit on the edge of his bed. “Has this been happening since you beamed up?”

“Since the start of my treatment. The process involved in curing alien infections, as you know, are in varying states of experimentation. I was briefed on the various impacts it may have upon my psychological condition, so an event such as this was not entirely unanticipated. Additionally, it is not uncommon for individuals to revert to their primary language in times of acute stress.”

All this Jim knew. But he let him ramble on, perhaps a bit longer than he would on duty. A talkative Spock was a reminder that his beloved was alive, and at his side. And any thought like that was comforting. 

“Well, you won’t be tongue-tied for long. McCoy’ll see to that.” Jim chuckled, “Or else we’ll have to get you a language tutor, won’t we?”

Through the dimness, he saw Spock’s brows dip thoughtfully.

“ _Mesh-tor t’tu than kah, ashayam_?” 

He did not understand the sentence - not on a cognitive, meaning level, at least. But Jim knew the last word well, and knew the man who called him beloved. He could hear the hesitance in those words, the uncertainty.

He shifted forward. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

There was a pause. The air was filled with only the soft pulse of the bio-reader above them, and whatever Spock was clearly mulling over in his mind. 

Slowly, Spock sat up. 

“On average, it takes a Vulcan child two years and four months to achieve a proficient Standard. It is one of the foremost marks of _kash-to’es_ , a measurement of one’s academic potential, and a means of testing commitment to Surak’s principles. To learn is to share in the common good. To join the work of the Federation, the many.”

His gaze fell to his lap. Jim saw him bring his bottom lip into his mouth for a brief moment.

“It took me five years, seven months to master Standard.”

There was so much that was said beyond the words themselves. Jim recalled the flashes of Spock’s memories that he had been privileged to witness. The hatred of his Vulcan peers. The painful loneliness, there and on Earth, the longing, the doubt that he could ever belong in either place, in any place. 

“Spock,” he whispered. “You haven’t lost anything. You mean too much to Starfleet for your position to be jeopardized by--”

“It is not my position that I fear for.” 

What a concession. _Fear._ Jim’s heart squeezed at the word. 

“I...am not concerned about my ability to speak Standard.” Spock shut his eyes, turned his head away. “Please understand. There has been so much about me that has proven unlovable to so many before you. Statistically, it is only a matter of time before I disappoint your expectations. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that the only logical course for you to take is to--” 

“Hold my hand.”

It made Spock stop, look around at the hand Jim held between them. The evidence of his self-disgust was still present in the furrows of his expression, though a measure of surprise softened his gaze. 

“What?”

“I take your point. But I have a counter offer.” Jim nodded to his hand, that waited for Spock’s. “Please trust me.”

Carefully, his gaze flicking back and forth between their fingers and Jim’s eyes, Spock did. 

A familiar rush of warmth swept over them, as hand brushed hand. Jim shifted his touch, so that their palms cradled each other. 

“You are probably correct about our expectations. No one is perfect all the time. And you’re right that I wouldn’t understand much if you stopped speaking Standard. But I do know one phrase in Vuhlkansu.”

Spock gasped, as gently, tenderly, Jim brushed his first fingers across his. 

“ _Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, Spock_.” 

And it echoed through the touch. A swell of emotions rushed past his thoughts - _surprise, joy, are you certain, is this really...?_

“You’ve met my expectations, surpassed them. There’s nothing that I could ask of-- Spock?” 

Jim felt his smile fall, looking up to see a wet streak tumbling down his stoic first officer’s face. He let go. 

“Sweetheart? No, please don’t be upset! I’m not--”

“I know.” 

Spock enclosed Jim’s hands in his own. He nodded. 

“I understand now, I...feel that you are sincere.”

“Of course.” Still, Jim freed one of his hands, brushed away the tears from Spock’s cheek. “But you’re not upset, are you?”

“No. Merely gratified.” He inclined his head. “Ashau nash-vesh tu, Jim.” 

And though it wasn’t in his language, that made Jim feel a little tongue-tied nonetheless. 


	2. Weight of the World

The day had been difficult. 

When Spock stepped past the threshold of the captain’s quarters, it was to see his superior lying on his bed face down, his arms locked around his head.

They were often viewed as opposites. The captain smiled, he did not. He ran cold, and Jim was perpetually warm. 

But on occasion, they both wept. And neither of them very much enjoyed having that fact known. A captain must remain unquestioned in his strength by the crew, and thus he must hide himself, his feelings from them.

Including, at times, from his chosen partner. 

Gingerly, Spock lowered himself onto the bed. 

“I don’t want to talk,” came from under the barricade of Jim’s arms, betraying a glimmer of the emotions below. 

Spock placed his hands on his back.

“Nor do I.”

He could feel the weight of the ship beneath his fingertips, coiled into Jim’s flesh in a communion that might have been perverse, frightening, if Spock did not understand him as he did. He knew why Jim allowed himself to shoulder such a burden. 

It was his duty to ease it. 

Below, Jim produced a soft sound of indulgence, as Spock slowly worked the muscles of his back. Starting at his hips, his tailbone, trailing upward over his ribs, feeling the tension unwind beneath his touch. The barricade around his head began to weaken. 

Up his shoulders, carefully negotiating the vulnerable column of his neck. Spock leaned to place his lips behind one ear. 

Jim shifted away, sat up. Spock almost made to apologize, but as Jim pulled the uniform shirt over his head, recognized that this was not a matter of fault, or discomfort. 

A slight thump as the shirt hit the floor. When Jim looked over his shoulder, the rim of his eyes were pink, but no trace of unsteady emotion dampened his commanding gaze.

“I want…” He looked to Spock’s hands. “May I?”

“As you please.”

He did not seem to be in the mood for their usual dance, their niceties. Nor was he inclined to hold conversation as to the plan. 

Jim took Spock by the wrists, pulled him forward, locked his back into Spock’s chest. His hands slid overtop Spock’s, began to guide them across his chest, down the curve of his hip to his thighs, to spread across his mouth - to engulf himself, Spock realized, to surrender while still in control. 

He understood. A whisper of human feelings through the bond - _loneliness, longing,_ the ever present reminder that this was forbidden, that his ship, his freedom, _you, Spock, you_ might somehow be taken from him. 

He understood. Spock understood quite deeply. 

He did what Jim’s hands bid him do. 


	3. Odds and Ends

Christine wasn’t sure how it started. But she wasn’t complaining either.

She must have discovered something missing from her jewelry box. Or else saw a familiar necklace at Nyota’s throat, or one of her rings encasing her finger, and realized it sent a little flutter through her stomach. 

There just was something about sharing clothes with your partner. Though it wasn’t exactly clothes in their case. More like odds and ends. 

Being a different height than your girlfriend was a serious bummer. 

Well, no, not really. There was nothing that Christine Chapel didn’t seem to love about Nyota Uhura, including her shortness. The way Nyota fit into her arms, how she rose onto her tiptoes to place a kiss on her cheek, the angle at which she smiled up at her - all of it made Christine dissolve into a girly, giggly mess. 

But it did mean that they couldn’t swap outfits - at least, not without some serious fit issues. 

Which sounded like an odd sticking point. But really, it was one of things Christine had been dreaming of ever since she’d realized men were just...not her area. The idea of sharing everything, even down to wardrobe! Oh, it just made her feel all romantic. 

Though, Christine had always been inclined to see life through a romantic lens. 

It became a little bit of a game. 

On alternating days, one of them would borrow something secretly from their quarters - the other would try to find out said secret before end of shift. 

Christine wasn’t sure which role she liked better - finder or being found. As with everything, Nyota was an ingenious self-decorator. Once, she had wound one Christine’s necklaces through her up-do, making her hair shimmer with its silvery links, as if full of stars. Nyota turned simplicity into art, made everything look so beautiful and refined. Christine just adored to look at her. 

But then, oh my, to be looked _at._

How Nyota’s eyes narrowed in concentration, the intensity with which she sought out every inch of her, seeming to go straight through Christine’s uniform to her epidermis! And when she had found her out, the grin that spread across her lips could set Christine blushing for hours. 

“You have got to make this harder, honey,” Nyota had laughed, two days prior, having found the bracelet she had repurposed into a choker in the first five seconds of shift. 

_Make it harder?_

That gave her an idea. A rather...mischievous one. 

She put it into action. And it seemed to work. Though her stomach was doing somersaults, just waiting for Nyota to catch on, it seemed her stroke of imagination had paid off. 

She could see Nyota’s brow furrow deeper and deeper, as each pass of her eyes failed to find the borrowed item. 

Finally, at 1800 hours in the crew lounge, the white flag went up - for the first time in their borrowing history. 

“Did you even take anything?” she huffed, striding over to where Chapel sat. “Don’t tell me you just pretended to borrow something - that’s cheating.”

“No, I did borrow something. You’ll just have to, um, look elsewhere.”

Christine moved her hand to her collar, pretending to tug at it bashfully.

“Look else...?”

But Nyota stopped, her eyes locking onto Christine’s collarbone. Or more specifically, the strap of a pink bra that did not belong to the chief nurse.

“ _Oh_.”

The change in her expression was remarkable. From surprise, to admiration, and then the arch of her smile made a thrill run up Christine’s spine.

“So that’s the game you wanna play, huh?” 

Nyota leaned closer, hooked a finger under the strap. Christine produced a small gasp, delighted, as Nyota pulled her sharply upward, stopping just before their lips could meet. 

“Well, if you meet me in quarters in ten minutes, I’ll give you somethin’ else to look at.”

Christine decided she would start being more imaginative from now on. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Nuh’ ugelik – too bright  
> ne-tor ha’gelan – lower the lights  
> Mesh-tor t’tu than kah, ashayam – would it shame you, beloved?  
> kash-to’es - intelligence  
> taluhk nash-veh k'dular - i cherish thee  
> Ashau nash-vesh tu – I love you.


End file.
